


On a Night Like This

by stardust_made



Series: The Christmas Series [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:10:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt "Sherlock and John dance."</p>
            </blockquote>





	On a Night Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by the fantastic [](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/profile)[**disastrolabe**](http://disastrolabe.livejournal.com/). Written for lenap_trap. Original entry [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/41703.html#cutid1) at my Livejournal. This can be read as a stand-alone, but I've written a sequel to it and will post it tomorrow. Merry Christmas, everyone!:)

  
John sighed and bowed his head lower. The letters of the textbook still swirled under the trembling flame of the candle next to him.

He supposed two explosions in four years wasn’t really that bad, considering who lived at 221b Baker Street. Well, technically the first explosion had been in the building opposite, and this one was rather less impressive than the first. In fact, it managed to scare only the dog, who had luckily been curled asleep with his deaf ear outwards; the vibration must have alarmed him more than the sound.

The real damage from the explosion was to the electricity, and of course _no one_ wanted to work on New Year’s Day. Not when there was the prospect of electrocuting yourself as you fiddled with the wires, brain and body still recovering from the previous night’s celebrations. The police also wanted to gather more data for their records, meaning the resolution of the problem had been postponed until the following day.

So here they were, the sitting room candlelit and blissfully warm, thanks to the fireplace. _That_ was not accessible as a light source, though, because all the space in front of it was occupied by a lounging Sherlock and a snoozing Sagan.

If John was to be fair, this explosion hadn’t even been Sherlock’s fault. Only a complete fool would have believed that Sherlock had any interest in another person’s girlfriend. Apart from all the other evidence, John liked to think the subtle affection and commitment Sherlock exhibited towards _him_ was hint enough.

But obviously not to the madly jealous boyfriend of the Nicaraguan ballet dancer Bianca Chamorro. She had waltzed into their sitting room two days ago to seek Sherlock’s help with the mysterious disappearance of her sister. The sister had been located, safe and sound if a bit embarrassed, trying simultaneously to elope and leave the country illegally. Her fiancé’s stomach, full of heroin-stuffed condoms, had quickly turned her embarrassment to horror and a petty domestic case into an international drug operation.

Sherlock had most certainly forgotten about the wider repercussions of the case—and Bianca as well, the second she was successfully reunited with her sister. But Bianca’s lover had seen things differently. John would have snorted with amusement if the intentions of that idiot hadn’t been so bloodcurdling. Had the man not been hopeless with do-it-yourself bomb making, his device could have easily killed at least five people. But all that aside, the idea that drove him was preposterous— _Sherlock_ as a passionate rival in love!

Of course, _John_ could verify that Sherlock wasn’t at all dispassionate in that respect. But his was a very…His interest was very—

He fancied only John and what they did in private was quite, er, very private and certainly didn’t lack passion. John couldn’t help but grin at the quick series of images his mind conjured.

Then he remembered his exam on the following day and felt his face drop. He squinted at the text again. His eyes protested and watered, the mist in them definitely of the saltwater variety that stung and itched. John rubbed them again, gingerly. He’d read by candlelight for three hours and was nowhere near prepared. He cast a rueful look outside; they’d opened the curtains to make use of the streetlight. If it hadn’t been the coldest day off the last two decades he would have gone out to buy more batteries for the flashlight. Some Newsagent’s was bound to be open on the first. Part of John wished it had snowed—that would have changed things. London was always paralysed by a proper snow. Surely all driving exams would have been cancelled then, practice and theory.

John sighed again and buried his nose in the book, resigned.

A warm hand brushed his neck and made his heart jump, startled and eager. He had been avoiding looking at Sherlock’s form all night, but now the mountain had risen and come to Mohammed.

And just like that John felt a bit wretched. He didn’t want to study for the stupid exam. He didn’t want to strain his eyes and his brain until the former started burning and the latter started softening like cheese in an oven. He wanted to seize the rare opportunity of having Sherlock immediately post-case: still fuelled by the remnants of his mental work, but no longer occupied by it. This Sherlock was languid and softer around the edges, yet continued to be his incredible, punchingly brilliant self. He was quite affectionate, too.

“I’ve been watching you for twenty minutes,” Sherlock murmured in his ear, sending tickles down John’s spine. “I fail to see the need for television when I can just lie over there and have my entertainment right off you.”

“Good to know my misery is amusing you,” John replied half-heartedly and turned to look up at Sherlock, who had straightened. Sherlock’s lips quirked.

“You didn’t have just miserable thoughts,” he pointed evenly.

John quickly licked his lips.

“I thought my face was half hidden,” he said.

“The other half was eloquent enough.”

They shared a prolonged look. A soft pop from the fireplace broke the silence. John slowly reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand, rubbed the thin fingers with the pad of his thumb. Sherlock’s fingers curled around it. Sherlock’s eyes were almost colourless in the sparse light, and so beautiful that John felt his breath catch in his throat.

Then he remembered the exam again.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Stop thinking about it,” he said. “You’re going to fail anyway; worrying about it is a waste of time.”

John pulled his fingers away. “Excuse me, I’m not going to fail. At least I can’t think that. And some people might try and be supportive, you know. Not bring me down.”

Sherlock’s expression turned curious.

“You mean lie to you?”

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes.

“Never mind,” he said. “You won’t understand anyway.” He started turning back to his textbook. “I need to go back to thi—“

“Don’t.”

John looked up at Sherlock to find his face pleading and…innocent. Oh, no. Not innocent Sherlock. Innocent Sherlock obliterated all resistance, wiped away any intention John had to deny him or to be upset with him or to do anything at all that wasn’t what he wanted. Obviously John wouldn’t be able to study anymore.

“I didn’t mean ‘Don’t go back to your book,’” Sherlock clarified. “I meant don’t…Don’t be upset. And miserable.” His lips trembled to a smile again. “Or I shall have to go back to the skull for company. The dog’s asleep.”

John tried to smile but failed. He could feel his forehead wrinkling again—at this rate it would look like a dried riverbed by the morning.

“I need to study, Sherlock,” he said.

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock replied, just as quietly. “You _will_ fail. No, don’t—” Sherlock raised his voice a little. “I don’t mean to—It’s true, though. You’re not prepared. I know how much time you need to get your head round things. No, no!” There was frustration in Sherlock’s voice. He ran a hand through his hair then looked at John, intent written all over his features.

“You hate driving, John. And you don’t easily pick up things if you’re not interested in them. I’ve seen how much you studied for this, and paired with the level of your concentration it’s nowhere near sufficient for you to pass.” Sherlock paused then suddenly reached out to touch John’s hand, held it. “You also don’t need to drive,” he added.

John started shaking his head. “It would be so much better if I—”

Sherlock squeezed his fingers. “We’ve talked about this.” He pulled John up, abrupt and assured, then slid his arm around John’s waist to steady him, without letting go of his other hand. John blinked, dazed. All he could see was Sherlock’s face. The firelight made his dark curls glow with a copper tinge and his face was like a scenic route, with lovely dips and unexpected angles of natural beauty.

Sherlock looked down at him, serious.

“You shouldn’t do something you don’t like. You hate driving.” He held John’s eyes intently. “I don’t want you to—You shouldn’t drive. We’ll be fine.”

John felt deeply relieved at Sherlock’s words, but even more miserable for being so useless. It really would be so much better if one of them drove. They could just jump in a car and go places, and it would be cheaper, too, and if Sherlock needed him urgently, he could get to him more _quickly_ —

Sherlock leaned over, pressing the side of his face to John’s. “I’ll be fine,” he rumbled next to John’s ear, then gently swayed him. John lowered his eyes and smiled. Sherlock rocked them to one side, then to the other, then back. John let himself be moved, eyelids drooping. A hum filled the air and he could feel it vibrating from Sherlock’s chest. John didn’t recognize the tune but it was lovely and easy to follow, though not as easy as Sherlock’s hand at the small of John’s back—the perfect pressure to guide him, yet light and warm, unobtrusive. They went on swaying from side to side for endless seconds, the odd changes in movement coming naturally with the change of hum. Sherlock’s voice grew more confident as he danced John in a firm embrace. John closed his eyes and pressed his face to Sherlock’s neck, breathed in, let himself be carried away in a blissful maelstrom of security. He started humming the tune, too.

They could always continue to _run_ places.


End file.
